


Poor Tortured Souls

by Inell



Series: 2K Giveaway [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassin Allison Argent, Assassin Stiles Stilinski, Banter, Blood, Established Relationship, Evil Bad Guy Dies, F/M, I've never been so forgive any inaccuracies, Marrakech - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Reference to dead Argent Family, Reference to dead Sheriff, clandestine agency, knife, reference to human trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11988000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: Allison and Stiles complete a mission in Marrakech





	Poor Tortured Souls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bansheestydia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bansheestydia).



> bansheestydia won my 2K follower giveaway several months ago, and one of the ships she prompted was Allison/Stiles. I turned on my itunes today, hit shuffle, and this song came up so I used the lyrics & song to inspire this fic. Hope you enjoy!

Love needs its martyrs  
Needs its sacrifices  
They live for your beauty  
And pay for their vices 

  
Love will be the death of  
My lonely soul brothers  
But their spirit shall live on in  
The hearts of all lovers 

 _Love Thieves by Depeche Mode_  

 

The Djemaa- El-Fnaa is crowded with locals and tourists alike. Allison gracefully makes her way around the people without drawing any attention to herself, her eyes never leaving her target. When Cranston heads into the labyrinth of souks off the square, she follows. The scent of spikes quickly assails her nose, so many different aromas that it’s almost dizzying. There are even more people here than the square, piled around vendors bartering for better deals or window shopping with wide eyes that totally give them away as tourists.

The tightly packed groups of people will be something she can use to her advantage, she realizes, quickly changing her plan as she brushes past a man selling kaftans to two blonde women speaking German. The women aren’t wearing headscarves, drawing more attention than they probably even realize, and Allison can practically hear a lecture about not respecting local customs being muttered in her ear because she’s heard it often.

The aromatic blend of spices fades as she keeps walking, following Cranston further into the souks, passing a tannery whose stench is just strong enough to make her nose wrinkle. Her target stops, and she thinks he might be planning to enter the tannery, which will put a slight bump in their plans. Instead, he bends down to examine a hide drying on the pavement. He gets into an argument with the seller, walking away empty-handed and distracted.

When he’s far enough away, Allison falls back into pursuit. She hears a whisper nearby, unconsciously reaching up to touch her ear only to find it empty. No earpiece there to let Stiles’ whispers and murmurs keep her calm during this mission, his attention elsewhere. Her fingers brush against the soft material of her headscarf, and she pulls it slightly, tucking it closer around her ear as she continues walking. Despite the chaos around her, the world is silent. She can hear her own heartbeat, thumping along with every step she takes, and she ignores everything else.

Focusing on Cranston, she strokes her fingers over the nuzzle of the gun in her pocket. The original plan had been two bullets, but that changed when they entered the souks. She’s not patient enough to wait until they leave to strike, not willing to take the risk of being spotted before she can finish her assignment. Still, the cool metal of the gun against her fingers is a comfort as she watches Cranston shop at the olive souk, speaking to a man in a hushed voice that she can’t overhear.

When he buys a jar, she watches him hand over several dirhams. There’s a piece of yellow paper tucked between the bills, only obvious to someone looking closely. Allison looks around carefully, only relaxing when she sees Stiles watching the exchange intently. He glances at her, his lips curving into a slight smirk that makes her eyes narrow, and then he’s gone. Disappeared into the crowd like a ghost, somehow blending in despite the fact she always has trouble taking her eyes off of him. She knows others do, too.

Assured that Stiles will be taking care of the olive merchant, she hurries after Cranston. Now that the drop off has happened, she picks up her pace. She ducks into an alley and quickly bends down, pulling her knife out of the ankle sheath, allowing the overly-long sleeves of her coat to cover the blade as she spins around and picks Cranston’s trail back up. The point of the blade is balanced on her middle finger, her hand cradling it as she walks, each step faster but still somehow keeping rhythm with the beat of her heart.

It’s while a group of loud American tourists is passing by that she sees her opportunity and strikes. Americans are always a nice distraction, usually loud and traveling in packs with a tour guide, the attention is on them as she slips up behind Cranston. It just takes a second to drop the blade from her hand, gripping the handle of the knife when it passes through her fingers. Her movements are fluid, practiced to perfection, and it’s a clean slice across his throat, deep enough to hit the arteries. She hears the sound of glass breaking when Cranston drops the bottle of olives he’s carrying followed by a gurgling gasp.

Normally, she’d have gone for something cleaner, straight to the heart possibly, but Cranston doesn’t deserve clean and fast. He’s built an empire on buying and selling children, on enslaving hundreds to mine for diamonds in the Congo, on stealing weapons from the west to sell to the highest buyers, and he’s branching out into biochemical weapons, which is what brought him onto her agency’s radar. People who harm children are the worst, so she’s going to make sure he suffers for at least a few minutes before bleeding out.

She doesn’t wait around to watch. There’s no chance of survival, after all, and she knows it’s better to make a quick escape. By the time someone notices the blood and screams, she’s far enough away that no one would ever suspect her involvement. The knife is in her pocket beside the gun, her fingers curled into her palm so the sleeves of her coat cover the sight of blood on her skin, and she keeps her attention on the dome of the Koutoubia Mosque, which is her way out of this labyrinth.

By the time she’s back at the Djemaa- El-Fnaa, she’s calm and poised. Stiles is waiting for her by a palm reader’s table, the blue umbrella crooked and faded from the sun. There are two women seated at the table, perched on small green stools as one reads the other’s palm. Stiles just shrugs when she arches a brow at him, walking towards her with a smile.

“I have a very long life line,” he says, holding up his hand and wiggling his sinful fingers at her. “And she seemed very impressed with my love line, too.”

“You seriously had your palm read while I was dealing with Cranston?” Allison reaches for his hand, putting her palm against his.

“I had time, so I figured, why not?” Stiles curls his fingers around hers, not caring about the traces of blood still on her skin. “We need to contribute to the local community while we’re here, after all. Not right for us to just come and leave bodies all over without doing something to help support the locals.”

“Peter would probably beg to differ,” she points out, squeezing his hand. “He always hates when you get on a cultural anthropology kick.”

“Eh, he should have thought about that before he recruited me to the Agency,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead. “He just saw how good my ass looks in slacks and forgot all about the fact anthropology was my second major.”

“I could understand his moment of forgetfulness because your ass _does_ look amazing in tailored pants. It’s one of the few things he and I happen to agree on.” She tilts her head back, kissing him lightly. “I think he got so enamored because of the whole ruthlessly plotting revenge against the man who killed your father and successfully killing the guy without detection more than your majors or your ass.”

“It _was_ rather ruthless,” he admits, looking smug for a moment in a way that makes her wish they weren’t in a crowded central square in Marrakech but were back in their hotel room instead. “Anyway, it wasn’t without detection because Peter found out. He still won’t tell me why he’d been watching me in the first place, though.”

“He probably couldn’t help himself.” She grins when Stiles huffs at her, never able to accept that he’s ridiculously hot and competent in a way that turns people on. It’s been five years since Peter Hale made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, and Stiles has been with her since day one, teaching her and training her and helping her kill the man who had taken out her entire family and eventually loving her in the way she never realized she needed. It’s nice that she can still fluster him sometimes, though.

“You’re ridiculous,” he finally mutters, which means she totally won that discussion since he only says than when he knows he’s lost. She’s way too stubborn to let him win anyway, especially when said discussion is about him.

“We should probably get out of here before the authorities start questioning people about Cranston. They were starting to scream when I walked away.”

“You used your knife, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, too crowded in there for the gun. As it is, I was able to sneak up on him and do a quick slice. He didn’t even know what was happening.”

“Good riddance. One more evil scumbag off the planet. Only a few million more to go.”

“Do you really think there’s that many?” Allison looks at him curiously as they walk away from the square. “I mean, we see the worst of the worst in our line of business, the ones the governments can’t touch legally, so I think maybe it skews our perception.”

“Nah, there’s a ton of evil assholes in the world. We’re just lucky that most of them don’t have the means and ability to do anything to back all their twisted beliefs up. Fortunately, we can take some of the worst out of the mix and do some small part in changing the stats.” He pulls a familiar piece of yellow paper out of his pocket and shows it to her. It’s a list of names and ages, none over 12, along with prices. “These are some of the people we saved today. I sent it to Danny so he can make sure they’re all accounted for when Jackson and Kira finish freeing the kids.”

“That’s a lot of names.” Allison takes the paper, rubbing her thumb over the paper and leaving behind a smudge of red. “I thought it was going to be codes or something with the guns, not the trafficking.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure, but the guy broke way too quick to be anything too hardcore. He tried to bribe me when he realized I was going to kill him.” Stiles bumps his hip against hers. “Speaking of, you hungry? I grabbed a couple bottles of olives as a souvenir after killing the creep.”

“Nah, you can save them for later. We’ll need some snacks after I get done with you, after all. My adrenalin is pumping, and I’ve got a lot of plans when we get back to our hotel room. Wicked wicked plans for me, you, and that sexy bod of yours, babe,” she says, dimpling at him when he gives her his ‘I’m so gone on you it’s ridiculous but I’m still somehow sexy instead of dopey’ look. Obviously, she can’t resist pushing him against the nearest wall and kissing him passionately, making sure he knows she’s just as gone on him.

They’re both a little broken, but, somehow, they fit together perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://inell.tumblr.com)


End file.
